It is the fourth day after forsaking the couch among the shin oaks, and
the two fugitives are still travelling upon the Llano Estacado. They
have made little more than sixty miles to the south-eastward, and have
not yet struck any of the streams leading out to the lower level of the
Texan plain.
Their progress has been slow; for the wounded man, instead of recovering
strength, has grown feebler. His steps are now unequal and tottering.
In addition to the loss of blood, something else has aided to disable
him--the fierce cravings of hunger and the yet more insufferable agony
of thirst.
His companion is similarly afflicted; if not in so great a degree,
enough to make him also stagger in his steps. Neither has had any water
since the last drop drank amid the waggons, before commencing the fight;
and since then a fervent sun shining down upon them, with no food save
crickets caught in the plain, an occasional horned frog, and some fruit
of the _opuntia_ cactus--the last obtained sparingly.
Hunger has made havoc with both, sad and quick. Already at the end of
the fourth day their forms are wasted. They are more like spectres than
men.
And the scene around them is in keeping. The plain, far as the eye can
reach, is covered with _artemisia_, whose hoary foliage, in close
contact at the tops, displays a continuation of surface like a vast
winding-sheet spread over the world.
Across this fall the shadows of the two men, proportioned to their
respective heights. That of the ex-Ranger extends nearly a mile before
him; for the sun is low down, and they have its beams upon their backs.
They are facing eastward, in the hope of being able to reach the brow of
the Llano where it abuts on the Texan prairies; though in the heart of
one of them this hope is nearly dead. Frank Hamersley has but slight
hopes that he will ever again see the homes of civilisation, or set foot
upon its frontier. Even the ci-devant Ranger inclines to a similar way
of thinking.
Not far off are other animated beings that seem to rejoice. The shadows
of the two men are not the only ones that move over the sunlit face of
the artemisia. There, too, are outlined the wings of birds--large birds
with sable plumage and red naked necks, whose species both know well.
They are _zopilotes_--the vultures of Mexico.
A score of such shadows are flitting over the sage--a score of the birds
are wheeling in the air above.
It is a sight to pain the traveller, even when seen at a distance. Over
his own head it may well inspire him with fear. He cannot fail to read
in it a forecast of his own fate.
The birds are following the two men, as they would a wounded buffalo or
stricken deer. They soar and circle above them, at times swooping
portentously near. They do not believe them to be spectres. Wasted as
their flesh may be, there will still be a banquet upon their bones.
Now and then Walt Wilder casts a glance up towards them. He is anxious,
though he takes care to hide his anxiety from his comrade. He curses
the foul creatures, not in speech--only in heart, and silently.
For a time the wearied wayfarers keep on without exchanging a word.
Hitherto consolation has come from the side of the ex-Ranger; but he
seems to have spent his last effort, and is himself now despairing.
In Hamersley's heart hope has been gradually dying out, as his strength
gets further exhausted. At length the latter gives way, the former at
the same time.
"No farther, Walt!" he exclaims, coming to a stop. "I can't go a step
further. There is a fire in my throat that chokes me; something grips
me within. It is dragging me to the ground."
The hunter stops too. He makes no attempt to urge his comrade on. He
perceives it would be idle.
"Go on yourself," Hamersley adds, gasping out the words. "You have yet
strength left, and may reach water. I cannot, but I can die, I'm not
afraid to die. Leave me, Walt; leave me!"
"Niver!" is the response, in a hoarse, husky voice, but firm, as if it
came from a speaking-trumpet.
"You will; you must. Why should two lives be sacrificed for one? Yours
may still be saved. Take the gun along with you. You may find
something. Go, comrade--friend--go!"
Again the same response, in a similar tone.
"I sayed, when we were in the fight," adds the hunter, "an' aterwards,
when gallupin' through the smoke, that livin' or dyin' we'd got to stick
thegither. Didn't I say that, Frank Hamersley? I repeat it now. Ef
you go unner hyar in the middle o' this sage-brush, Walt Wilder air
goin' to wrap his karkiss in a corner o' the same windin' sheet. There
ain't much strength remainin' in my arms now, but enuf, I reck'n, to
keep them buzzarts off for a good spell yit. They don't pick our bones
till I've thinned thar count anyhow. Ef we air to be rubbed out, it'll
be by the chokin' o' thirst, and not the gripin' o' hunger. What durned
fools we've been, not to a-thinked o' 't afore! but who'd iver think o'
eatin' turkey buzzart? Wall, it's die dog or swaller the hatchet; so
onpalatable as thar flesh may be, hyar goes to make a meal o' it!"
While speaking, he has carried the gun to his shoulder.
Simultaneous with his last words comes the crack, quickly followed by
the descent of a zopilote among the sages.
"Now, Frank," he says, stooping to pick up the dead bird, while the
scared flock flies farther away, "let's light a bit o' a fire, an' cook
it. Thar's plenty o' sage for the stuffin', an' its own flavour'll do
for seasonin' 'stead o' inyuns. I reck'n we kin git some o' it down, by
holdin' our noses; an' at all events, it'll keep us alive a leetle
longer. Wagh, ef we only hed water!"
As if a fresh hope has come suddenly across his mind, he once more
raises himself erect to the full stretch of his gigantic stature, and
standing thus, gazes eastwardly across the plain.
"Thar's a ridge o' hills out that way," he says. "I'd jest spied it
when you spoke o' giein out. Whar thar's hills, thar's a likelihood o'
streams. Sposin', Frank, you stay hyar, whiles I make tracks torst
them. They look like they wa'n't mor'n ten miles off anyhow. I ked
easy get back by the mornin'. D'ye think ye kin hold out thet long by
swallerin' a bit o' the buzzart?"
"I think I could hold out that long as well without it. It's more the
thirst that's killing me. I feel as if liquid fire was coursing through
my veins. If you believe there be any chance of finding water, go,
Walt."
"I'll do so; but don't you sturve in the meanwhile. Cook the critter
afore lettin' it kim to thet. Ye've got punk, an' may make a fire o'
the sage-brush. I don't intend to run the risk o' sturvin' myself; an'
as I mayn't find any thin' on the way, I'll jest take one o' these
sweet-smellin' chickens along wi' me."
He has already re-loaded the rifle; and, once more pointing its muzzle
towards the sky, he brings down a second of the zopilotes.
"Now," he says, taking up the foul carcase, and slinging it to his belt,
"keep up your heart till this chile return to ye. I'm sure o' gettin'
back by the mornin'; an' to make sartint 'bout the place, jest you squat
unner the shadder o' yon big palmetto--the which I can see far enuff off
to find yur wharabouts 'thout any defeequelty."
The palmetto spoken of is, in truth, not a "palmetto," though a plant of
kindred genus. It is a _yucca_ of a species peculiar to the high table
plains of Northern and Central Mexico, with long sword-shaped leaves
springing aloe-like from a core in the centre, and radiating in all
directions, so as to form a spherical chevaux-de-frize. Its top stands
nearly six feet above the surface of the ground, and high over the
artemisias; while its dark, rigid spikes, contrasted with the frosted
foliage of the sage, render it a conspicuous landmark that can be seen
far off over the level plain.
Staggering on till he has reached it, Hamersley drops down on its
eastern side, where its friendly shadow gives him protection from the
sun, fervid, though setting; while that of Walt Wilder is still
projected to its full length upon the plain. Saying not another word,
with the rifle across his shoulder and the turkey buzzard dangling down
his thigh, he takes departure from the spot, striking eastward towards
the high land dimly discernible on the horizon.